James

My old friend Mark Twain showed up again last night at the foot of my bed.

I don’t mind. He can be witty at times.

But not this time.

Mark was all lathered up about author Percival Everett stealing the story of “Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” to publish his own book, “James.” Mark smelled like he had just come from The Tap Shack.

“Worse yet, it’s getting great reviews,” Mark whined. “And who calls their kid Percival, anyway? It sounds like a fancy French cheese.”

I tried to tell my friend he should be honored. That Everett’s novel was created on the shoulders of Mark’s famous, classic work. “Mark, there could be no ‘James’ without your brilliant story. You should pen him a thank-you note.”

Mark would have nothing of it. He slammed my bedroom door and woke me up.

My guess: he’s back at The Tap Shack, slugging down another beer with his brother, Orion.